big hands and feet

you have big hands and feet.
in fact, nothing i do or say could possibly change the way your hands and feet make me giggle inside probably because they are awkward and foreign and domestically challenged. so i hide it.

i must say, i think i like you that way because only i can see that you're not meant to do particular things like clean, or kill, or sew tiny bits of string back together from parts that you accidentally broke off, but felt bad about the moment you saw them scattering off into the wind. you're a kind human. the kind that feels bad about bits of string flailing away on a sad day. little things like that keep me here wondering.

you use your fingers in ways that are strangely barbaric, in ways that are grotesquely perfect and too beautiful for the world we live in, or even too perfect for the most perfect word to be spoken about them in silence, somewhere in the dark out there.

to me, you are something prehistoric, something ancient that has walked the earth for centuries. a beautiful cave woman who could melt in my arms and teach me beautiful things. to them, you remain this perfect thing misunderstood. your thirst to create something beautiful, alive, goes unseen and unheard.

take me in your big arms, come back and hold me someday, after you're done roaming the earth, combing the corners of eternity in the days and months after her. after them.

come back because your fingers belong inside of me.